


Three Weeks, Two Days

by TroubleIWant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Stiles Stilinski is a Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:09:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1649774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroubleIWant/pseuds/TroubleIWant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles pushes himself away from the wall, towards Derek. “You wanna know how much longer I’m seventeen? Three weeks, two days.” </p><p>That’s all it takes; no way his better judgment is standing up to an invitation like that. “Three weeks, two days,” he says with one eyebrow cocked, and just like that they have an agreement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

“Oh yeah, who’s the best,” Stiles is chanting, doing a victory dance around Derek’s table and the huge pile of books stacked on top of it.

“You found a spell that will make iron glow when the were-panther is around,” Derek grits as Stiles shimmies. “It’s not actually going to help us kill it, which is what we’re here to figure out. Remember?”

Stiles ignores him and keeps doing that goofy dance. That goofy, sexy dance with way too many hip thrusts. And then he’s got his arms over his head, exposing just how toned they are now – as if anyone has failed to notice that he’s basically _ripped_ now, or that he’s really grown into his features, or that his hair is all long and _tuggable_. Everyone has noticed those things this summer, Stiles. _Often_. God, his shirt is riding up. Derek hunches over the tome in front of him and does his best to ignore the hip thrusts.

“C’mon, I’m the best,” Stiles says, pausing to hover right behind Derek. Not being able to see Stiles is more distracting, if anything – it’s like Derek can actually feel his body heat radiating through the space between them. Stiles has always been someone to push boundaries, but Derek swears he’s gotten worse with the innuendo and leering lately. It’s not even _about_ anything, just a game to see exactly how annoyed he can make Derek before he snaps. Why didn’t they invite anyone else to their little research party, again? This is ridiculous.

“Say it, say ‘you’re the best, Stiles, you’re so smart and good looking.” And there we go, that little lilt that says he’s not going to stop until Derek is flustered and blushing. At least Scott is usually around to make him back down at that point, but not today.

Derek scowls. “I am not going to say that. Sit down.”

“Oh, you’re totally thinking it.” Stiles’ hip actually bumps up against Derek’s side, leaving a warm tingly memory of pressure on his skin. “You’re thinking, Stiles is the best, I’d do him in a hot second. You’re thinking, Stiles, you’re so smart I’d like to bend you over these books here and…’”

That’s it. Derek stands and turns towards Stiles in one contained movement and shoves him against the wall of his loft with one hand, like back in the old days when Stiles had an appropriate level of fear for werewolves.

 “I would not like to anything, Stiles. You are _seventeen_ ,” he stresses, jabbing a finger at the boy’s face. One more smart-ass comment and he’s going to wolf out, hand to god.

But Stile’s smartass expression is nowhere to be seen. He’s just looking at Derek with wide startled eyes, lips slightly parted in surprise, open and honest and himself. With the length of Derek’s hand pressed firmly against his sternum. Derek jerks – doesn’t jerk his hand back, just removes it. Normally.

“I’m seventeen?” Stiles asks.

Derek hopes his face conveys exactly how stupid that question is.

“Not, I’m a weird looking dork,” Stiles continues, picking up steam, “not, ‘you’re an idiot, Stiles; you’re scrawny and helpless; you have dumb hair, Stiles; you’re a total spaz and I don’t go for the ADHD thing’… none of that’s a problem. Just, ‘you’re seventeen.’ The only issue Derek-Sex God-Hale has with _doing_ _me_ is that I’m underage.”

Derek knits his eyebrows and crosses his arms menacingly. Stiles isn’t scrawny or dumb or any of those things, obviously, but it seems wisest to keep his mouth shut if “you’re jailbait” is somehow qualified as a come on at this point. And… _Sex god_?

Stiles pushes himself away from the wall, towards Derek, whose eyes maybe flick down towards the boy’s abs for a second. “Oh my god,” Stiles says. “You’re totally, actually into me – for real.” And now that smart ass expression is starting to come back.

“You wanna know how much longer I’m seventeen?”  He says. They’re just a hair closer than appropriate, now, and _fuck_ when did they get to be basically the same height? “Three weeks, two days,” Stiles whispers, leaning in even closer.

Derek takes a moment to register that – _under a month, really?_ – and meets Stiles’ nakedly aroused gaze when he does. That’s all it takes; no way his better judgment is standing up to an invitation like that. So, he lets his eyes wander freely over all the changes he’s tried so hard to ignore for the last months: The tendons in Stile’s neck, his collarbones and the dip in this throat between them. The muscles in his arms and those broad hands. Tight jeans snug across his hips… Derek meets Stiles’ eyes again with one eyebrow cocked. “Three weeks, two days,” he says, and just like that they have an agreement.

 

**

 

Or, Derek assumes they have an agreement. But the next time they meet, to try out up some new weapons at Chris’ apartment, the kid’s not acting any differently. Wouldn’t he be acting differently if they had in fact agreed to have sex on his 18th birthday? That feels like something that would make you act differently.

Their eyes meet a couple times, of course, as they help calibrate the trackers and Chris gives a rundown on handgun safety. But over all, their banter isn’t any more sexually charged than usual. Stiles doesn’t even mime a hand job with one of the inarguably phallic trackers.

Derek runs over the conversation in his head. Neither of them had said anything explicitly. He could have got it wrong. Or maybe Stiles had just had second thoughts about getting it on with a creepy loner who was practically a decade older than him. Which would, frankly, be understandable.

Derek doesn’t blame him, and he’s not going to make things awkward by bringing it up. Because yes, Stiles has gotten creepily hot sometime in the last year or so, and he called Derek a fucking sex god, and there _has_ always been this kind of tension between them that he doesn’t think he’s imagining. But Stile is primarily Scott’s best friend, and Derek isn’t going to do anything to spoil their hard won and honestly pretty awesome pack dynamics.

Derek makes a point of smiling at Stiles as he heads downstairs to stock the rounds he just finished marking with runes. They’re cool, see? No harm no foul.

Stiles makes a point of finding Derek on his way back upstairs, sliding his hand onto Derek’s bicep, and pressing his chest against Derek’s to breathe hotly into his ear, “two weeks, six days.”

So, they have an agreement.

 

 

**

 

And if that’s how this agreement is going to go down, Stiles seems to have forgotten that experience is on Derek’s side.

He catches Stiles’ scent a few days later, hears him and Scott bantering on their way to his loft. He drops for a few quick pushups, just enough to engage his muscles and work up a slight sheen of sweats, then strips his shirt off and balls it up in his hands when the doorbell rings.

 “Oh, hey,” he says, opening the door and leaning casually against the jamb. He knows what he looks like, but it’s still gratifying when Stiles almost chokes on his tongue.

“In the middle of a workout,” he says. “Help yourselves to lunch, I’ll finish up.”

Scott just looks confused. “Uh… I’ll just have some water. Stiles?”

“Coke,” Stiles chokes out.

“There’s some in the kitchen,” Derek says, gesturing.

As soon as Scott’s out of the room, Derek walks deliberately behind Stiles, letting the silence drag out. He runs his fingers around Stiles’ waist, up under his shirt onto bare skin, ending just a hair below his jeans’ waistband at those two tender spaces where the jeans are held taunt away from his skin by his hipbones. “Two weeks, one day,” he says, pitching his voice low and dirty. He pairs the words with a suggestive tug and is rewarded with the tiny sound of Stiles swallowing.

Scott comes back with the water and Coke bottle, and they sit down on the couch to take a look at the lore Deacon dug up. Stiles shifts around, crosses his legs, and then puts a pillow in his lap with a perfectly casual expression, daring anyone to say anything about it.

From then on, it’s all eye-fucking, all the time. Even Scott might be picking up on it. Derek does pull-ups on the stairwell. Stiles practically rims his bottle of coke. Derek, freshly showered, reaches all the way over him to pick up a thick book one handed. He is not sure how they’re going to last another two weeks.

 

**

 

Stiles invites Derek to come along with him, Scott and Lydia to a movie, something with robots and lasers. He seems really excited about it, and it would be good for Derek if Lydia hated him a little less, so he accepts. It turns out Scott has promised to eat lunch with his mom, so it will just be the three of them. But it’s in public, after all, so what’s the harm?

The trailers are loud and full of explosions, and for the first five minutes of the movie, Derek actually thinks it’s another trailer. He tries to follow along, without much success, but about halfway in Stiles reaches over towards his seat. For a second, Derek thinks he’s going for a hand hold. Are they doing that? Is this a date? But instead, Stiles’ palm comes to rest on high Derek’s thigh. The older man squirms – doesn’t squirm, just readjusts.

Stiles’ grip spans from the outside of Derek’s leg to his inseam. Jesus. After a quick squeeze, he starts to trail his fingers in little teasing circles, edging higher. Derek zones out, any hope of keeping up with the movie gone, his entire focus on the light brush of Stiles’ fingers on his pants. Thank god Scott took a rain check; at least Lydia and Stiles can’t hear his heartbeat.

Then it’s only one finger on his leg. Stiles drags it down, does a little circle, and repeats. The same little pattern. Suddenly, it clicks: 1 – 0. Ten.

Derek’s been thinking one week, three days, but it’s ten days, isn’t it? Days now, they are _days_ away, just enough days that he could count down on his fingers. His mouth is suddenly dry, and he shifts in his chair again. How much longer is this movie? He could really use some private time here, time maybe not in these stupid, tight jeans.

 

 

**

 

Hanging out at Scott’s place really works for Derek right now; their Alpha hits this perfect balance between not so observant that he catches on (so they don’t need to rein in the eye-fucking) and reliable enough that they’re never alone (so Derek doesn’t actually have to look up the minimum sentence for statutory). But of course Stiles doesn’t quite see it that way.

“Hey Scott, can you call Kira to ask her how to translate this,” Stiles asks passing a note to his best friend.

“Uh, sure,” Scott says squinting down at the kanji. “Is this about the were-panther? I can take a picture and text her.”

“It’s important,” Stiles assures him. “You should call.”

Good enough for Scott; he pulls out his phone, wandering out of the room for privacy.

Stiles catches Derek’s eye with a wicked smirk. Derek holds his gaze, leans back onto the couch. It’s not supposed to be an invitation, but Stiles gets up and heads toward him. For the first time, Derek actually feels a pang of, _whoops undo button please_. They’re at exactly one week.

And then the kid is crawling into his lap, knees straddling Derek’s hips, not quite sitting his weight down but bracing both hands on Derek’s shoulders. “Seven days,” he says, and bends down to run his tongue down the edge of Derek’s ear, inspiring a full body shudder of pleasure. “Stiles,” Derek says, somewhere between a warning and a whimper. Scott is just in the next room. Stiles ignores him, mouth moving to cover his earlobe, sucking gently and then _nipping_. Derek’s not sure what to do with his hands, so they end up on Stiles’ ass.

Stiles drags his mouth down an inch to Derek’s neck, sloppy and soft. “It’s gonna be so fucking hot,” he’s murmuring.

A burst of laughter comes from the other room; Scott. “Not now,” Derek snaps, pushing Stiles’ hips back so the younger man stumbles to his feet.

Scott comes in mere seconds later. Stiles is still standing between Derek’s knees, looming over him.

“No, no, I don’t think that would work on a were-panther,” Derek blurts.

“Yeah, clearly. Definitely not,” Stiles answers, their eyes still locked. He actually looks pissed, even though Derek just saved them from a really, _really_ uncomfortable situation.

Scott takes the tableau in. “Kira says it’s kind of… gibberish?” He says, waving the note. Stiles looks innocently disappointed as he sits back down, and Scott drops the issue. “What did you guys find?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says pointedly, cutting his eyes at Derek.

“Iron bullets,” Derek add libs. “We were talking about… I don’t think that cursed iron bullets would work.” He can still feel a cold trail of Stiles’ saliva on his ear and neck. He’s talking to Scott about pack things with Stile’s spit on his body.

It’s really strange and uncomfortable and that _undo undo undo_ feeling has suddenly gotten a lot stronger.

 

**

 

It’s not that Derek doesn’t want Stiles anymore, it’s just that he’s suddenly aware that he’s signed up to go through with the agreement regardless of wanting to or not. Too late to back out gracefully; exactly 5 days from now, Stiles is going to have a birthday party, and exactly when that party ends he’s going to expect Derek to sleep with him. Their countdown is starting to feel like an oncoming train.

Derek has this sudden vision of trying to take his pants off and Stiles trying to help but he’s making it worse, and both of them are apologizing and fumbling buttons and clonking their foreheads together and basically creating the least sexy situation ever. And Stiles will notice that Derek’s not hard any more and he’ll look up at Derek with perfect sincerity, and say that it’s okay, he understands that older men sometimes have these problems. And then Derek will never be able to look him in the eye again.

He’s not hyperventilating, he’s just breathing quickly.

And honestly, despite all the bedroom eyes, they haven’t talked about this at all. Derek has no idea what Stiles expects. Is he going to want to be tenderly deflowered? Wait, Derek doesn’t even know if he’s a _virgin_. What if he expects Derek to be rough, hold him down and talk dirty? The countdown thing has been kind of kinky, after all. Maybe he’s into that. Are they going to have to pick safe words?

And all that is only a fraction of the growing mass of practical details that can no longer be ignored. Hence Derek standing here, in the convenience store on the other edge of town from the school and the Stilinskis’ house, staring at a wall of condoms. It seems presumptuous to have one, because again he has no idea exactly what their agreement entails, but clearly not having one would be more of an issue than having one that doesn’t get used. So here he is.

Derek wanted to be in and out, but then the first box he grabbed was labeled “for her pleasure,” and that was just weird. And now he’s down the rabbit hole – how big a box is reasonable? Is ribbed good or bad in this context? He’s pretty sure they don’t need spermicide, and it might be irritating. He grabs another box, brows furrowing in concentration, and flips it over to check the active ingredients.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of tan and green, and his throat seizes up. The sheriff’s office is less than half a mile away from this store. Why did he avoid the school and not the sheriff’s office? Running into Stiles, awkward. Running into the sheriff? Potentially fatal. _Keep cool,_ he thinks to himself. _He doesn’t know, just act normal._

He turns his head a fraction to see Deputy Parish tossing laundry detergent into his basket, and his knees almost buckle in relief. No badge, so he’s off duty.

The Deputy walks towards him, giving him a slightly curious look, but they don’t acknowledge each other more than that. He stops next to Derek, and reaches across the display to unhook a 12-pack of condoms marked XXL. He tips them into the basket with the soap and, glancing at Derek again like he’s still not sure why this weirdo is hanging out in front of the condoms, heads to the checkout.

Derek shoves the box he was still holding back on a random peg and leaves. There’s still enough time to order some online.

 

 

**

 

And then it’s there. _The_ day. Stiles’ party is full of teenagers Derek doesn’t know, and he feels out of place – old and creepy. Which is pretty fair, since he’s explicitly here to fuck the birthday boy. Stiles is coming through the crowd now, shouting something over the music, probably a greeting but Derek still can’t quite catch it. Stiles goes in for a hug, and for a second Derek is terrified he’ll say ‘now’ and drag him off to some grungy bathroom or store room, but instead he says “Four hours.” Derek does the math - midnight. Stiles disengages from the hug, slaps him on the shoulder and darts off for some more meet-and-greeting.

After that first hello, Stiles is everywhere except wherever Derek’s decided to lurk. Derek wishes he could get a drink, but of course they’re not serving tonight, so instead he makes very confused small talk with Kira about fox vocalization and how it relates to her childhood dreams of being a rock star.

Midnight rolls by, and though party starts to clear out it’s also getting a bit noisier – Derek is pretty sure there are a few flasks going around. It’s not until just before 1:30, a few minutes after Scott and Kira leave, that Stiles catches his eye, wiggles his eyebrows, and shouts “Okay, birthday boy going home. Thanks everyone, thanks for coming out. See you on Monday. Hydrate!” He makes a finger gun and winks at the crowd like a rock star, and with one more pointed look at Derek, he leaves the party. Derek is gone exactly 47 seconds after that.

 

He lets himself into Stiles’s room, through the window. The Sheriff is working the late shift and the house is empty. He turns on the desk lamp, sits on the bed, and waits. He’s just starting to worry he actually did manage to misunderstand something when the front door opens with a click and he hears Stiles’ feet padding up the stairs.

“Oh, hey,” he says when he sees Derek already waiting on his bed. “You beat me.” He doesn’t look entirely thrilled.

“Happy birthday,” Derek says.

“T-minus zero days,” Stiles says, mouth flicking into a tight, nervous smile, faltering around the edges. Derek listens for his heartbeat – it’s racing, above arousal and into fight-or-flight territory. Almost as fast as Stiles’ fingers are drumming on the desk.

Derek’s nervous too, but for Stiles he can set that aside. He moves to the younger man, slow enough that Stiles can pull away if he wants to. He doesn’t. Derek runs his hand lightly down Stiles’ cheek until he’s cupping his jaw, thumb gently tracing that high cheekbone. Stiles has gone still, so much that looks like a prey animal, amber eyes huge in the warm glow of the streetlight outside, lips flushed and parted.

Derek leans in and kisses Stiles, almost chastely at first, letting the younger man be the one to change the angle and flick his tongue across Derek’s lower lip. He moves his hand to the back of Stiles’ head, and deepens the kiss, hears the pounding heartbeat start to calm down.

After what feels like a long, breathless time, he pulls back and waits while Stiles’ eyes flicker open and focus on his face again. The heartbeat ticks up.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Derek asks softly.

“Y-yeah!” Stiles says, not quite managing conviction. “I mean, we’re two consenting _adults_ here,” He tries to make it brash and jokey but it falls flat.

“Are you?” Derek asks, and Stiles looks horrified and a little offended, like he’s considering bringing out some photo ID. “I mean, you’re not a consenting adult by _default_. You’re an adult who has the ability to consent, if you want to. That’s all. I’m not going to make you…”

“C’mon it’s _fine_ ,” Stiles blurts. “We’ve been building up to this, this thing, and I can’t – we can’t just _not_. I’m totally up for it. I want you.” He shuffles his feet, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, gaze fixed on Derek’s face to gauge his reaction.

Derek smiles. “You know how many days you’ve been 18? One.” He’d somehow forgotten in all the build up that the magic birthday wasn’t going to make Stiles any less… Stiles. “I think we can safely assume that you have at least a few more to figure it out, okay? I’ll still be here tomorrow.”

“Wow, say it like that and I’ll start to think you really like me,” Stiles says sarcastically, but his heartbeat ticks down a notch.

 “I do like you,” Derek says, almost surprised to hear it come out. He didn’t mean to go there, but having said it feels right.

“Oh,” Stiles says, and Derek thinks he might just be blushing. “Good. I, uh, like you too.” For a moment they just look at each other, digesting that. Then Stiles says suddenly, “But if we don’t like, _do it_ , you won’t think I’m like,” and makes a strange expression and gesture combo that Derek reads as something between ‘childish’ and ‘a prude.’

“No,” he says.

“Okay,” Stiles says, “Okay.” For the first time that night he actually looks calm. “It’s just a lot of pressure to be like, amazing. And I’m kind of drunk.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says, “I’m nervous too.”

Stiles snorts, and does a double take when he realizes the werewolf isn’t joking. “Wow, okay. But you don’t have to go, do you? We can still _kiss_ , right?”

“Absolutely,” Derek says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fine place to end! Or, click through for the (slightly) pornier coda


	2. Coda

They take it pretty slow, and five months later they’re still paused at heavy petting (unless you count that time that Stiles came in his pants after a bit of too-enthusiastic grinding, and out of respect for Stiles’ overwhelming embarrassment Derek does not). They’ve raised making out to some kind of art, though, to the point where they’re both completely aware of the others’ sweet spots and favorite moves. Honestly Derek is kind of loving how drawn out it is – no rush to orgasm, no frantic need to get it right, get more friction _there_ , right _now_. Just laying in each other’s arms kissing and touching until the position gets uncomfortable, then rolling around until they find another way to fit together that’s just right.

Stiles arches back against the bed with an incredibly sexy growl-groan, trailing his hand lazily up his stomach to where Derek’s head is resting on his shoulder. He starts to play absentmindedly with his hair. Derek turns his face into Stiles’ chest, kissing down his pectoral onto his ribs, loving the feeling of Stiles’ hand dropping to his neck, massaging. It’s even better because Stiles is doing it _knowing_ Derek finds the gesture soothing and erotic.

He pushes himself up to avoid crushing Stiles’ legs, places a final kiss right next to Stiles’ bellybutton and looks up – they never go lower than that with mouths.

Stiles looks back, propped up on his elbows, pupils blown. His hand his still on Derek’s neck, but when he lays back it ends up cradling the back of his head. “Keep going,” he whispers, encouraging Derek gently downward with his hand.

“You sure?” Derek checks in.

“God, yes,” Stiles whimpers, rolling his hips. “Please.”

Derek kisses a little lower this time, one hand bracing his weight and the other popping Stiles’ jeans open. He checks in again while he pulls down the fly. “Tell me if I’m going to fast.”

“What if you’re going too _slow_ ,” Stiles says through his teeth. “Can I tell you that?” The pressure on Derek’s head increases so a less subtle encouragement. “I mean, I respect that you respect me but at some point it’s…” the sentence cuts off in a sharp intake of breath. “Oh,” Stiles moans.

Derek smiles, or would if he didn’t have his mouth otherwise occupied. Instead he flicks the tip of his tongue up for another very satisfying reaction.

 

It’s a pretty good blowjob, if Derek says so himself, but undeniably short. “Wow,” Stiles says to the ceiling. “Just… wow.”

Derek runs his tongue over his lips, adding the taste to his growing collection of sense memories of Stiles’ body.

“I’m like, almost _angry_ thinking about how many other dudes you’ve blown to get that good,” Stiles says. “Except that I’m so fucked over right now I can’t even be mad.”

Derek actually laughs. “It wasn’t that good.”

“Lies. So do I like, reciprocate, or…?”

“Yes,” Derek says emphatically, “But not necessarily right now.”

Stiles sighs happily and snuggles back so they’re spooning. “Good. Right now I just want to nap, not compete in the deep-throat Olympics.”

“It’s not about technique, Stiles – I’ll be turned on because it’s _you_ ,” Derek says.

“Oh no, don’t give me that. It’s a competition alright. And this guy? Going for the gold. I’m too tired to really give it my all just now, but I’ve read, like, eight how-tos and watched an obscene amount of porn. I even worked on my gag reflex. Not sure I still _have_ one, actually. When I blow you, it’s going to be so fucking hot.” His voice is dropping off into a murmur. “You’re gonna be like, ‘you’re the best, Stiles, you’re so... ‘” he pauses to yawn. “So smart… and good looking…” He stays awake exactly long enough to squirm into Derek’s hard on one more time, and then starts to snore.

Derek grits his teeth and tries to calm down with Stile’s body pressed up against his. Some things never change, but he’s holding out hope that it won’t take another five months, three weeks and two days to go from a promise to an orgasm.


End file.
